


Send Me Ur Location

by andwhatyousaid



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anxiety, First Time, Hotel Rooms, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21542953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/pseuds/andwhatyousaid
Summary: After the iHeartRadio show in Seattle, Patrick pays Pete a visit in his hotel room.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71





	Send Me Ur Location

**Author's Note:**

> For some, intangible reason, while watching footage of the recent [iHeartRadio](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nerNsxs-jV0) [show](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ByB3GnqgHg4) in [Seattle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IvZe_7-tudM), I felt compelled to write this —perhaps due in part to Pete apologizing to the hosts for Fall Out Boy being a trainwreck interviewing experience, and in part to Patrick stepping in to answer questions and their interplay, and also, in part, let's be real, to Patrick's beard, and then, really, largely, in part to Pete later posting a bunch of random, kind of intimate stories on [Instagram](https://andwhatyousaid.tumblr.com/post/189286351827) (and then deleting one, I think). 
> 
> Massive, endless thanks to [carbonbased000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carbonbased000/pseuds/carbonbased000) — who I feel incredibly lucky to know at _all_ —for not only her seriously generous encouragement and cheerleading, but also for giving this a read-through and making it safe for public consumption. Disclaimer: 10000% fiction. Title sourced from "Location" by Khalid. Thank you kindly to anyone who reads!

Pete’s still thrumming from the stage —the confetti phantom-falling on his face and into his eyes, the noise of the crowd and heat of them as he got close enough to touch roaring in his ears, the overhead lights bright against his skin —while lying flat on the bed in his empty hotel room, nothing but the A/C humming to life and his phone held inches away from his face as he scrolls through Instagram. He hasn’t really bothered to change yet, either, still in his jeans, or switch on the TV. 

Outside, through the window, the sun has long since set on the sloping hills and glittering sea further beyond. The stars caught in the netted black twinkle a little, more than in LA, but not enough to compete seriously with the lamps hanging beside the bed and at one far corner of the room or Pete’s phone screen.

His mind keeps going elsewhere, anyway: returning to the backstage room moments before they went on, Patrick throwing him a glance while stretching out his hands, one flexing inside the other, bending his fingers back, Joe having just made some stupid joke; the airplane ride from LA to Seattle with his ear-buds jammed in tight, steadfastly watching reruns of _Curb Your Enthusiasm_ on the monitor in front of him and only turning to look out the window, rather than at anyone else; submitting the tracklisting for their second greatest hits in a cold, reductive email, deja-vu hitting him squarely in the chest. 

It happened onstage, too, while speaking into the mic to hundreds of people and answering a question: he was in the middle of his sentence, and then suddenly felt adrift and floating, surreal, watching himself say something from above the stage, his mouth moving while his mind shuddered and wondered _What’s the next word again? Where am I going with this?_ He had to zoom back into his body in time to catch the tail-end of the thought and tie it together —all of it recorded in real time on radio and on film, leaving him with nowhere to hide. 

He tries not to cover his face with his pillow and suffocate himself just thinking about it. Luckily, he doesn’t have to try too hard because his phone chimes with an in-coming text.

It’s Patrick asking: _let me in?_

Pete grins a little at his phone, raising his eyebrow in curiosity, and then rolls over onto his belly in an effort to get off the bed, stumble to the door.

When Pete opens it up, Patrick’s facing the other way, looking down the hallway, the hairs at the back of his neck looking soft, one hand tapping a rhythm out on his jeans absently and the other hanging onto his laptop and charger. But he jerks his head around at the noise of the door before Pete can freak him out —put his hand over Patrick’s eyes and whisper _guess who_ into his ear or something. 

“You have to hear this,” is the first thing that Patrick says. He touches Pete’s chest in a little thump in greeting, right at the center, shouldering past him through the doorway and into the room. 

“Good to see you too,” Pete says to Patrick’s retreating back, his black t-shirt sticking out against his skin, severe at his upper-arms. “Really, no, come on in.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” Patrick says distractedly, shooting Pete half a smile; Patrick’s already found an outlet in the corner, under the tail-end of the window and the desk there, and he’s pulling the chair out. “Great place you have here,” he says from his crouch under the table, plugging his laptop in. 

Pete waits for him to rise before he answers, “Do you like what I've done with it?” He gestures to his open bag on the floor under the TV spilling contents across the carpet: two different types of bulky, overlarge sneakers and a long scarf and books all tangled up together. 

Patrick laughs as he pushes up his glasses, eyeing the mess. “Looks familiar,” he says, glancing up at Pete with a smile quieted down, tucked into the corner of his mouth now. 

Pete’s mind starts to go elsewhere again, shuttering through a flipbook of memories: Patrick giving him that look from across the stage earlier when he’d said that 2020 felt too far into the future; just before they'd gone on, when Pete had whispered into Patrick’s ear, “What if no one is out there,” as if Pete had been joking and he hadn't, but Patrick looking at him like that made it feel a little bit more like he had; earlier this year, when they'd woken up between here and there on the bus, and Patrick had stumbled out from his bunk, bleary-eyed, confused, and Pete had turned around from the counter at the kitchenette to offer a ready cup of coffee, even though it was two in the afternoon. 

He wills himself to come back, to look again at Patrick now, hurriedly pulling something up on GarageBand. 

Above the clicking of the keyboard, Patrick’s saying, “I couldn't get this one bit of a melody out of my head, and, okay, I know you said it as a joke tonight but do you actually remember that time you emailed me that you want a song like _Back to the Future_ meets _Drive_?" 

Pete tries to catch up, forcing a little laugh until it feels real because _yeah_ , he does remember that —a hazy, 3 AM email sent over a year ago. “No way, did you do it?”

+

A split-second before it happens, Pete can see it: Patrick’s styrofoam cup —half-full of the lukewarm coffee with sugar and cream that Pete made in the on-suite drip coffee-maker for Patrick hours ago —tumbles and slips in Patrick’s grip; it gracefully misses the open laptop on the table, but splatters all over Patrick’s shirt, soaking it down the front. 

“Shit,” Patrick says, scooting his chair back to avoid dripping onto his laptop or phone. He shoves the cup onto the edge of the table, and presses his hand to the spill at the front of his shirt as if to soak it up. 

Pete startles into action, too, saying, “Here, let me,” and hurrying to the bathroom for a towel to help, which Patrick takes with a small, grateful smile, etched right at the corner of his mouth, flashing there and then gone. 

“Thanks,” Patrick says, glancing at Pete, holding the towel to his chest. Then he squints over at the TV like it has an answer for him, though there’s nothing except for _The Great British Bake-Off_ playing on mercilessly in the background, a low-grade white noise. “What time is it anyway?” 

“Uh,” says Pete, squinting at Patrick before he remembers to check his phone. “Why?” He gets briefly distracted by the ton of notifications he has now; his Instagram video about the eclipse is weirdly popular, apparently, though his selfie isn’t so much, and his thumb hesitates over the image for a moment.

“I don’t know,” says Patrick. He shrugs when Pete looks up, his mouth shifting. “Should probably get back to my room. Let you sleep.” He gestures down at himself, and the used towel now slung over the back of the chair. “And you know, probably change.” He grimaces.

“Dude, just sleep here,” Pete says before he can think about it. 

“Nah,” Patrick says, already rising from his chair; he closes his laptop, then reaches down to unplug the charger from under the table. “It’s just down the hall.” 

“No, it’s cool, I got you,” Pete says all at once as he kneels on the floor to dig around in his open bag. He finds an over-sized, soft shirt at the bottom, threadbare from high-use. “Here,” he says, thrusting it out to Patrick. “You can just sleep in this, and seriously,” he nods towards the bed, “it’s a queen, it’s fine.” 

Patrick deflates a little. “Pete,” he says slowly, quietly, but he’s also standing close enough to take the shirt now, his fingers skirting the end of it, his other hand self-consciously pressed to his spill; Pete isn’t convinced Patrick won’t drop the shirt right onto the floor if he lets it go now. “It’s just down the hall,” Patrick says again. 

“I got you,” Pete says again too, looking up into Patrick's face. He tries not to say _please_ or _stay_ and swallows hard around it, trying not to choke on his own spit.

“Alright,” says Patrick, looking at him for another beat before pulling the shirt out of Pete’s grasp, and turning to sit on the ajar chair. He takes off his shoes, one at a time, and as he unknots the laces, says: “Did you ever watch that show, _True Detective_ , that I told you about?”

Pete tries to slow his breathing. “What?” he says, absent. “I don’t think I did yet.” 

“Come on, I’ve been telling you! I bet it’s on the thing.” Patrick jerks his chin up to indicate the TV. 

“Oh, yeah, right,” says Pete, catching on, pushing himself off of the floor. “I’ll pull it up.” 

Then Patrick’s shoes are off, tucked underneath the table politely as if Pete hasn’t seen them sprawled messily across just about every surface; in his socks, Patrick heads to the bathroom, raising the shirt at Pete in explanation, muttering quietly that he’ll be only a moment. 

Once the door clicks shut, Pete perches on the end of the bed to search for the show; he has to switch hands with the remote a couple of times because they're so shaky; it’s difficult to press the right button, and he accidentally hits more than one at once, his fingers smearing across them like a child pressing buttons in an elevator.

When the bathroom door opens, Pete finally has the title typed into the search bar; he tries not to swivel his head around to stare at Patrick coming out of the bathroom, and starts itching with the resistance. 

“There it is,” says Patrick from behind him. “No, start with the second episode." 

Pete can feel the moment Patrick jumps onto the bed, feel the dip in weight and hear him shuffling around; he imagines Patrick leaning back against the pillows, and then can resist no longer; Pete tucks his chin into the side of his shoulder and glances over. Patrick is there, as Pete had imagined: settled into the pillows, which he’s arranged behind himself so that he can lean back into the headboard. Pete’s white shirt is a little tight across his chest but looking comfy, soft. “Trust me,” Patrick says, his voice growing quiet, rooted in his chest. He isn’t wearing his pants anymore, just his boxer-briefs, though his socks are still on, his bare ankles crossed. 

“I do,” says Pete, looking at him for just one moment more before forcing himself to face the TV again. He presses play and stays perched on the end of the bed, trying not to fidget with his jeans or the comforter, and then feels the soft touch of Patrick’s hand at his back; Patrick tugs a little at the collar of his shirt, underneath his hair hanging low in a messy bun. 

“Aren’t you gonna get comfortable?” Patrick says from what seems to be very far away.

Pete breathes in through his nose, out slowly through his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, and turns once he’s ready, crawling on the mattress towards Patrick, flopping down so that his head is nestled on Patrick's chest and tummy, lying on his side, horizontal across the bed. 

“I meant PJs,” Patrick says into Pete’s upturned ear, but Patrick also starts tracing lazy and loose patterns across Pete’s back with the tips of his fingers so Pete tries not to move, tries not to lean up desperately into the touch, only laughs a little, like it’s a joke Patrick’s told. 

Patrick gets distracted anyway: “Oh, man, did you see that?” He shakes Pete a little by the shoulder as if to catch his attention, Patrick’s whole body lurching up a bit. 

Pete tells Patrick that he did, but truthfully, all he can think about is turning his face into the crook of Patrick's armpit and shoulder where the meat of him is, stretching out fully and letting Patrick trace wandering designs into his back under his shirt the whole fucking night. 

The show lulls for a moment, the two characters on-screen mutely driving through a vast, blank landscape, miles and miles of desert rolling endlessly by, and Pete feels his eyes drift shut, Patrick’s fingers tickling up his back over the fabric of his shirt, and himself drift up —again, like when his mind wanted to wander elsewhere, up towards the ceiling, out the window and to the sky and stars beyond.

+

“What,” Pete says into the dark, confused, his tongue heavy and dry, stuck to the roof of his mouth. His pillow is moving. He feels himself frown at it.

And then his pillow tells him, “Shh, it's okay, go back to sleep.” 

“What, Patrick,” Pete says, mumbling sleepily, remembering at once how he fell asleep. “Where’re you—” He squints his eyes open, though there’s only the vague shape and outline of Patrick in the dark.

“Just getting some water,” says Patrick, sounding amused; he rubs Pete’s shoulder reassuringly and then lowers him down into the sheets, slipping away, but the actual pillow isn’t the same, and without Patrick, the sheets are cold against Pete’s bare legs —he must’ve taken his jeans off some time in the night; the confusion is still jarring, making him jerk, restless.

“Wait,” Pete says, his hand flashing out to grip Patrick’s wrist before he can escape completely; Pete’s heart is pounding, spooked. 

Patrick’s looking at him with full attention now, illuminated by the light coming in through the window. The TV must be off; the room is quiet and still, just the hum of the A/C clicking on. Pete doesn’t know what he was going to say. 

“It's okay,” Patrick says, and then he looms closer, his glasses-less face and shoulders coming into focus. He kisses Pete’s forehead gently. 

Pete's hand flexes on Patrick's wrist, gripping tight, breathing in sharply at the contact. He grabs for Patrick’s shoulder with his other hand before he can slip away and surges up over the side of the bed to kiss him hard on the mouth. 

Patrick makes a caught noise in his throat, surprised. “Pete,” he tries to say, but Pete kisses him again, sloppy, his mouth too open, desperate, rising into it, half-sitting up in the sheets, Patrick’s beard rubbing, burning with friction, at Pete’s lips, at his own beard, against his chin and cheek.

“Please,” Pete finally says when Patrick pulls back again, minutely; Pete’s fingers curl in the shirt at Patrick’s shoulder, his nails wanting to dig in to Patrick’s skin underneath. “Patrick, please.” His voice breaks open at the end.

He hears Patrick breathe out once, as if bracing himself, before the full weight of him comes down on top of Pete, nestling between Pete’s legs, and Pete kisses him again, gasping, licking hotly into Patrick’s mouth, bringing his legs up to frame Patrick’s hips, squeezing his thighs around him. 

The bedding between them becomes insufferable almost immediately, and Pete breaks away only to shove the comforter and soft sheets away hurriedly, annoyed, though Patrick helps, and then reaches for Pete, framing his face with one hand, lowering himself down again so that their skin touches. 

Pete tucks his hand up under Patrick's shirt, feeling for more, satisfied only when he hears Patrick moan properly, as melodic as him singing on stage earlier, a hint of vibrato in his throat. Like this, Pete can feel Patrick thickening up against the inside of his thigh and he grinds up against Patrick, dirty and slow.

Patrick gasps at him, saying, “You're going to make me—” even though they’ve hardly been —

So Pete says, “Fuck, no, wait,” hurrying to tug Patrick’s boxer-briefs down his thighs until Pete can really feel him. He licks the flat of his palm to take Patrick’s cock in hand, lingering over it. 

Patrick pushes up into Pete’s fist at the hot, smooth touch, saying, “God, that feels _good_ ,” and then when Pete starts jacking him off in earnest, he says, breathless, “No, you too, come on.” 

He pulls back just enough for Pete to lift his hips so that Patrick can squirm his briefs down too; they get trapped around his thighs, but Pete doesn’t care, can hardly feel it. He screws up _his_ shirt that Patrick’s wearing to get a better view, to see Patrick riding his fist, propped on his knees over Pete, his briefs stretched thin between his thighs too, cutting into his skin, though Patrick doesn't seem to notice either, distractedly breathing hard and moaning when Pete catches the head of his cock and rubs his thumb there; he doesn't notice when Pete yanks at the shirt either, even as Pete pulls it tight, pulls down hard so that Patrick’s angle changes like he’s fucking down into Pete. 

Pete can feel him on his belly, wet and hot. Patrick’s own hand is trapped between them on Pete’s cock, and Pete knows Patrick must be close already because he's absently holding his hand flat as extra pressure for Pete to grind into, though it’s more than enough for Pete. He presses his face right into the crook of Patrick's neck, breathing him in deep, groaning, low and guttural, yanking at the collar of the shirt, hearing the fabric rip a little, frantic with it. “Come for me,” he says into Patrick’s neck. “Please, come on,” he says, wanting to taste it so badly at the back of his throat that he could just fucking cry —and Patrick moans into his ear, gasping his name, his voice shuddering.

Pete can’t take it; suddenly it’s not enough at all: he pushes Patrick on his back, the sheets slurring around them, tangling up, and Patrick goes easily, trying to drag Pete with him, grabbing for him, but he doesn’t need to; Pete straddles Patrick’s thighs, and gets Patrick’s cock in hand again, right there. He leans forward to kiss Patrick hard, feel him gasping and moaning against his mouth, openly, with abandon; he’s not really able to kiss Pete back —breathing too quick, one hand a vice grip around Pete’s thigh, holding him there, the other curled tight around the back of his neck, keeping him close. 

The shirt’s all screwed up around Patrick’s armpits, and it smells just like Pete, and after this, it’s going to smell like Patrick too, the deep scent of him, and Pete wants to look suddenly, to see it. He pulls back to get the angle better, pushing Patrick down with a hand flat on his chest, half on his skin, half tangled in the shirt, changing his rhythm, less lingering and savoring, faster now, and Patrick rides up into it below him, reaching for him, Patrick's fingers curling at the inside of Pete's boxer-briefs, stretching the material, as if seeking more of him, his eyes fluttering shut, and Pete says, “Yeah, just like that,” barely getting the words out between a huge sigh. 

Pete twists the fabric of the shirt hard to the side with his hand for leverage to pull Patrick up and closer, even as he has him like this, his other hand slick and tight on Patrick’s cock, and Patrick tightens his hands on Pete at it, coming hard, all over his tummy. 

Pete has to clench his jaw on a low, raw moan at the sight; he jerks Patrick slowly through it, milking it, not wanting to let go of him, but can’t help from mixing his other hand up in the splattered come, touching it on Patrick’s tummy and chest, getting his fingers wet.

“Oh, fuck,” says Patrick. “Jesus Christ.” He’s taking huge breaths in, his hands sliding up and down Pete’s thighs, as if to ground himself. 

Pete finally lets him go, and then grabs the shirt in both hands from the underside and tries to haul Patrick up to kiss him again and again, so hard it fucking hurts. 

“I got you,” says Patrick, propping himself on an elbow to meet Pete there, slowing the kiss, his mouth soft, open, taking his time, fucking his tongue in deeply but not brutal, not bruising, and it makes Pete crazy, yanking at the back of Patrick’s shirt to tug him in closer, to get more, but Patrick won’t move.

“You’re teasing me,” Pete pulls back to say, accusingly, his voice low and raspy. 

“No,” says Patrick, immediately. But he sounds amused. “I wouldn’t.” 

“You are,” says Pete, insistent. “Can’t you feel—” and he grabs Patrick’s free hand, the one touching at his back, and puts it on his cock, the both of them squeezing around him. 

“God, Pete,” says Patrick, not needing any direction, jerking him off, a quick, tight rhythm. 

Pete can’t help from lunging into Patrick, grabbing his face with both hands, kissing him, and they topple over back onto the bed, into the sheets, making Pete’s hair come loose from its bun, smearing onto the pillows under him. 

Patrick settles over him again, holding himself up by his elbow above Pete, looking down into his face, his hand steady and quick on Pete’s cock; the shirt he’s wearing is all wrecked at the collar, all stretched out, all mussed up, wet and used and drying with Patrick’s come on it. Pete can’t bear the sight, and comes between one second and the next, arching up into it, pulling Patrick down on him like how they started, wanting him to feel it. Patrick tucks his face into Pete’s neck, kissing him a little there, at his ear. 

After, Patrick slips off of Pete, patting his thigh as he goes, falling into the bed next to him, and Pete reaches over to use the shirt to wipe off Patrick's hand even as Patrick says, “No, it’s okay, here, don't ruin your shirt.” But Patrick doesn't really protest, just tries to look at Pete through the dark as he lets Pete clean his hand with the material, one finger at a time until it’s dry.

Pete settles onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, breathing hard, his own shirt caught up on his chest, though he can’t bother to pull it down. He closes his eyes for just a second, squeezing them shut, willing the world to stop spinning for a moment. He can hear Patrick breathing next to him, as hectic as Pete feels, though it’s slowly evening out; his body must be cooling. 

Pete reaches out for Patrick’s hand, groping across the bedsheets for it, and finds it, or maybe Patrick finds him, their fingers meeting in the middle. Pete hangs on tight. Patrick strokes his thumb down the back of Pete’s hand, up to his wrist. 

“I’ve thought about that so many times,” Pete confesses into the silence, his voice rasping at the edges. For once, his mind doesn’t go elsewhere. 

Patrick’s thumb pauses, and then he squeezes Pete’s hand. “Have you?” he says, and Jesus Christ, he sounds hoarse. 

Pete rolls onto his side to look; he lets go of Patrick’s hand only to touch the side of his face in the dark, tracing down the line of his jaw over his beard, his cheek. “So many times,” Pete repeats. 

Patrick turns to look too, just shifting his head on the crooked pillow, angling over towards Pete. “Come here,” he says, gently, and opens his arm up for invitation.

Pete scoots across the short distance on the mattress; he rests his head into the crook between Patrick’s shoulder and neck, tucking in. Like this, he can hear Patrick’s heart-beat; it's thumping quickly, hard. Pete puts his hand over Patrick's chest as if to still it. 

Patrick doesn’t say anything for a long minute, and Pete tries to let it go, concentrate on Patrick’s hand tracing up his back again, now under his shirt, right on his skin, at the small of his back, then up his spine, down again, soothing and luring. Pete’s breath hitches a little without meaning to, and Patrick pauses for a moment before his hand resumes. 

“I think maybe, you might need to hear,” Patrick starts and then stops, still a little out-of-breath, quiet in the dark. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, too.” 

Pete grabs at Patrick’s arm, and then twists his head to kiss him, reaching blindly in the dark, but Patrick catches him, right there, his hands rising to hold Pete steady.  
  



End file.
